


Kill Him For Me

by sherwoodfox



Series: The Tortoise and the Hare [2]
Category: Lost
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, M/M, Unhealthy Parental Relationship, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-20 23:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15544449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherwoodfox/pseuds/sherwoodfox
Summary: With his father at knifepoint and Ben offering the blade, Locke considers his life up until this moment, and wonders how he let men like these take such important roles in it.





	Kill Him For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Exploration/retelling of The Brig (Season 3), with the addition of my favourite non-canon Lost pairing. Enjoy!

“You have to kill him, John.”

His father, Anthony Cooper, tied to a huge wooden poll in the jungle, a lamb for the slaughter- only to call him a lamb would imply some kind of innocence, wouldn't it? And John knew that he was not innocent. Not a lamb, then, but a sacrifice for certain- the kind of violent blood sacrifice barbarian tribes would demand, offering up a fresh human heart to the maw of a stone animal-god, the sort of gesture that would be absolutely unthinkable in the outside world, where there was civilization and rationality and clearly defined rules for what constituted as reality. But John wasn't there anymore. He was on the Island, and somehow here the act seemed plausible, amongst the wild trees and the endless sky and the sweltering air; in this place where monsters screamed at night and miracles touched human flesh, ritual murder seemed to belong. And in a way, it was no human asking this of him, it was the Island that demanded the sacrifice- though the one it spoke from was human, John knew, he had to be human- if he wasn't John might go insane from the feeling of those deathly blue eyes drilling into his skull. 

Ben pressed a knife into his hands, a crude and savage blade with which the deed could be done. His touch was gentle, and surprisingly compelling, the sweetness with which he passed over the weapon a contrast to the intensity of his stare. It was _bizarre,_ being handed something like this, not the knife itself but the meaning behind it- the way he did it, Ben could have been offering the thing so John could cut some boar meat for him, or open a jar, or something else entirely innocent and domestic. And in those situations John would have accepted it with a light heart, maybe giving Ben a gentleman’s kiss on the cheek which would surely have been shrugged off, but now the knife seemed monstrous in his hands. The handle somehow rougher, digging into the hyper-sensitive skin of his palms, the blade colder, uglier in the light. He almost couldn't bear to touch the thing, even as he took it his whole body was rejecting the weight, he wasn't sure if he was even strong enough to hold it still.

“Think of all the things he did to you,” said Ben, his tone righteous and spiteful, but not spiteful (he thought) of John. “You’ll be free when he's gone.”

Free? He _had_ been free of Anthony, free of him and all that he had stood for, free of that horrible half-life he had been living out in the real world. He had been born again here on the Island, cured of both his physical ailments and the weakness of his heart, he had been the kind of man he had always wanted to be-

-though not quite, a little voice whispered, he had still been susceptible to the seduction of a liar-

-and yes, he had been free! This act would be one to imprison him, weigh him down with its chains, tie his father to him forever, becoming not a memory of past hardships but a stain on his heart. Murder! That's what this was, that's what Ben was asking! It didn't matter what had happened before, that Anthony had stolen his kidney and cost him his love with Helen or broken his spine in trying to kill him- it was still murder. John didn't know if he could carry a mantle of that magnitude. He was a hunter, not a killer, were those not different things? How could he do something like this?

Of course, Ben thought nothing of murder. 

John knew it, he could feel it in the tone of Ben’s voice and see it in those eerie, glowing eyes- he was too collected, his patience and tenderness with John too rehearsed, he seemed to have anticipated every objection to touch John’s mind and had silky words to counter each of them. He didn't seem to care. It was like this sort of thing was easy for him- it probably was, and John felt sick thinking it.

Throughout this Anthony sat quiet, his eyes on John’s face nothing but mildly disgusted. Disinterested, he was in these proceedings, he wasn't afraid. Did that make it better, or worse? John didn't know. He was hyperclear in the firelight of the camp, John could see every bead of sweat gathering on his temples, every breath, every swallow, every pulse of blood through his jugular. Could he really see that well, or was he imagining it? Reality had curious boundaries on the Island, the borders seemed to stretch beyond the lines of the maps.

“It's the only way,” said Ben, now trying a different angle- yes, John could see what he was up to, he could spot deception even if he couldn't escape it- if summoning memories of cruel bygones wouldn't work, then maybe something else would. If John wouldn't kill out of hatred, maybe he would for love. Ben pressed in closer, cupping his hands around John’s so they were now both holding the knife, angling the edge of it upwards, aiming at Anthony’s throat. His hands were warm, but dry. Why?

“You have to come with us, John. It's your destiny. And I...I want you to come, too.”

Those were cruel words. They ripped into John’s heart worse than anything else he had ever said, because they were so _affectionate,_ they were a promise of love and honesty and sweetness offered only at the price of blood. 

Anthony, from his vulnerable position against the pillar, looked between the two of them and curled his lip. “What's this?” he said, the words a fog of poison in the air. “Is there something going on between you two? Is that why your girl dumped you, John, because you're a _fa-”_

John pressed the end of the knife up to Anthony’s throat, impulsive, his ears were ringing and he felt both hot and cold all over. Yet his father’s expression did not change, there was no fear in his eyes, no spark of any disturbance at the feeling of metal against the soft flesh of his chin. And Ben’s reaction was even more distressing- at the insult (which applied to him as well) he flashed Anthony a brief, dismissive look, the kind of look someone might give a bug they had just swatted or a screaming child in a marketplace. Almost immediately he turned back to John, his expression morphing again into something sympathetic, endearing, and fiendishly persuasive. Did he think John hadn't seen that flicker of ice?

“That's right. Strike him there and it will be over in seconds. You’ll be rid of him, John. You can stay with us.”

_Kill him, John. Kill him for me._

John shuddered.

He also realized, just then, that he was standing now in the presence of the two most important men in his life, and both of them were liars. What, exactly, did that say about him? What kind of person was he, that he attracted such terrible creatures, orbiting around them like a planet does the sun? Only they weren't suns, warm and bright and life-giving, they were black holes, the both of them. Something horrible was rising to the surface of his mind, something he had known all along but had not wanted to think about- he clung to Ben very much like he had his father, didn't he? Whenever he followed Ben through the jungle, tracking his paths until he caught him, that was the same sort of obsession that had left him parked outside Anthony’s house night after night. He let Ben and Anthony manipulate him in the same way, let himself get wrapped up and swung around by their words, always tempted to insanity by the little flashes of love the two of them offered, the moments of comfort and security of reuniting with a caring father, or holding a tender lover. Had he really gone from one to the other like that, without realizing it? Ben had suggested it before, that he _liked_ being tricked, but at the time he hadn't believed him. And now Ben’s hands were soft on his shoulder and wrist, guiding him, a minute weight urging him forwards, insisting he plunge the knife into Anthony’s throat and let the blood spray all over the pillar, and the earth, and their bodies. A stain that could never be washed out. His hands were shaking- and Anthony felt it.

“He could never do it, Bug-Eyes, he doesn't have the _spine,”_ he snarled at Ben, and John wondered how he could be so confident- was he not bound here, surrounded by a hostile mob, with a knife at his jugular? How could he possibly be unafraid? Even in a situation like this, where by every outward appearance John was the dominant force, he had no power over Anthony at all. A familiar feeling of bitter helplessness rose, choking, in his throat- it tasted like ashes, this emotion he had almost forgotten, so long buried it had been in the world beyond the Island. His father was intent on ruining everything for him, taking even the freedom and independence he had fostered here as he had taken John’s legs, and his love, and his life, and _everything-_

For a fraction of a second, an instant so brief a bird would not have had time to flap its wings within its duration, for a heartbeat only half completed, John could have done it. In that one tiny, microscopic flash, he became something other than himself, some man who was not John Locke who could have launched the blade forward into that fragile skin and let Anthony’s life spill out into his palms without a single regret or bad feeling. And in less than the time it would have taken for a deer’s eyes to blink, or a leaf to whisper something to the wind, the knife was moved forward by this other Locke just a few millimetres, the edge of it breaking the skin there just slightly, one red bead blooming on its silver tip. There was a soft sound of Ben’s breath catching and then the feeling was gone, vanished into the heavy night air like it had never been, and John couldn't do it anymore. The little drop of blood, reflected like the firelight in the metal of the blade, was too much for him, the sight was burned into his brain and would probably stay there forevermore; it was, somehow, one of the worst things he had ever seen.

John lowered the knife.

“I can't,” he said, and his voice was perfectly smooth, not trembling with stress and fear like one would assume, it seemed to come from someone else. “I can't do it. I'm sorry.”

Need he really apologize? He didn't know, it didn't seem justified, but somehow he felt he should, at least for the one who had asked, the one whose face he could no longer see. Everything seemed strange and dreamlike; his body was very distant from his mind right now, it was like he was floating in the iridescent firelight, no longer a part of the scene- though he felt a patch of his skin turn cold when Ben took his hand from his shoulder, he barely heard anything when he struck Anthony unconscious.

The little leader of the Others, with his unassuming, almost delicate figure and eyes like lamps marking the gates of Hell turned back to his people and spoke, and though his voice was small it rang out over their heads as though he had a microphone, powered entirely by its own timbre.

“I'm sorry, everyone,” he said. “He's not the man we thought he was.”

_You’re not who I thought, John. You’ve failed me._

Just as he had failed everything else.

The disappointment in Ben’s voice was subtle, the undercurrent meant perhaps for John’s ears only, but it had the destructive power to rival a nuke. The sound of it forced John back into his body, becoming once again hyper aware, now breathless as though he had been punched in the stomach. He tried to say something- what he could have possibly said, he did not know- but he had no voice left, his mouth was dry and his body weak and silent. He realized he had fallen to his knees, somehow, and he reached out with one hand to try and grab Ben- anything to keep him there, in that moment John needed comfort more than he needed air- but the smaller man stepped out of range, his face turned away, John couldn't see his eyes anymore. The crowd was starting to disperse, people turning aside and slinking back into their various tents and makeshift homes, going to back to a world wherein he had no place anymore. That was what always happened, wasn't it? And Ben was leaving too, and John felt like his heart was being ripped out to go with him, and he had never thought that any of the steps of his life would lead him somewhere like this.

Then Ben stopped and turned slightly, and the hope that tiny gesture placed in John’s heart was entirely insane, thinking that maybe Ben would be gentle with him somehow, would come back and hold him and kiss him and forgive him and say he understood even if he was disappointed, that this wasn't the end-

“You can't come with us now, John.” 

His voice was entirely calm, quieter but just as powerful as when he had addressed the Others, and his eyes were closed to the universe. He was so formal, speaking like that, so stiff, like John was a stranger. No, please don't do that, Ben.

“You can stay the night, but when we leave tomorrow you won't be able to follow us.”

John tried to say something again, choking on his own voice, and Ben just kept talking, his voice was made of absolute poison, and he never rushed or missed a beat. So calm, he was, did he really have an empty cavity where his heart was supposed to be? Did he feel nothing?

“You don't belong here anymore.”

John knew it was true, he felt like he had every day out in the real world, he never belonged to or with anyone- they always left him, or abandoned him somewhere, he never got to be a part of anything for very long. Every family he had ever joined had gotten rid of him, passed from foster home to foster home, never fitting in, always sent back like a defective appliance for misdemeanours he had never understood. And in adulthood it had been just as bad- his true father had never wanted him, the farm he had stayed at betrayed him for his weakness, the rest of Flight 815 had not believed in him. And his lovers, he had failed them all! Breaking his promises to Helen, and keeping his promises to Ben, when the way to be with one and save the other had been in the opposite act. And now, the one time he had refused, everything was falling to pieces. But when the last ounce of hope had drained from John’s heart Ben spoke up again, and this time his voice was gentler, more personal-

“You can still change your mind, you know,” he said, and the way he said it made John feel like it was a huge allowance, like he was the unreasonable one for lowering the blade. “You can track our path, I’m sure. But if you do come…”

What he said next turned all the bones in John’s body to ice.

“...I expect to see your father's body on your back.”

And then Ben was gone. The alter was quiet save the night ambiance and John’s own erratic breathing. Everyone had gone back inside.

All he had left was the knife, monstrous as it was in his hands, and Anthony himself, still tied to the pillar, unconscious and unknowing throughout that last desperate exchange. It was just the two of them now, once again, father and son at each other’s mercy. Something felt empty in his chest, what was it?

John realized suddenly that he had been wrong; Ben and Anthony were not the same, he had not traveled between two equivalent states in falling for their deceptions as he had thought, even in measurements of evil they could not balance a scale because Ben was much, much worse. Anthony was nothing compared to him.

And John felt both sick and somehow thrilled at that knowledge, though the reason for the presence of the latter emotion he did not know, or want to know, not really. He didn't need more proof that he was a bad person.

He thought that at one point he might have cried, but if he had the event made no impression on his mind, so consumed with his own thoughts was he. It was only much later, when he had retreated into the hills around the camp to watch the hours pass with clouded eyes, that he realized he was still holding the knife.


End file.
